Doug Allyn: The Best American Mystery Stories 2000

She offered coffee and I accepted, taking a seat at the long pine kitchen table. She looked at me oddly as she poured.

“I know you, right? Didn’t you manage the Roostertail when we played there?”

“We?”

“I was a backup singer for Bobby Penn. The other backup singer,” she added wryly. “Krystal’s the one people remember — tall, blond, and talented. I was the short, chubby country kid. You called me Alabam, because of my accent. Remember?”

And I did. A bouncing bundle of eager energy with a southern drawl. For an instant I saw her as she was in the old days, so vital... and then I was seeing her now. The woman in a steel chair. And then our eyes met, and I realized with a jolt that she was seeing me exactly the same way.

“My God,” she said wonderingly. “Look at us. Dick Clark hasn’t aged a minute in twenty years and the two of us look like we’ve been chewed up by an alligator and crapped in a ditch.”

She shook her head with an infectious chuckle that swept us both along until we were gasping. Sometimes life kicks you so hard all you can do is laugh. And she had the gift for it.

“Is something funny?”

Lost in the moment, I hadn’t heard him come in. Wouldn’t have recognized him anyway. Beans had lost most of his hair, slimmed down forty pounds, and was wearing a tailored three-piece suit. And toting a briefcase.

“Mr. Marino? My name’s Axton.”

“Right. Jeanie called me at the office, told me you’d be stopping by. Something about royalties?”

“Raleigh Records owes Bobby Penn back royalties, yes. Are you still in touch with him?”

“Slow down a minute. Can I see some ID, please?”

“Sure.” I gave him my wallet and he looked over my license carefully. Jeanie watched, amused. Her normal state, I think.

“So why do you want Bobby? And skip the royalties garbage. Nobody hires private heat to find somebody they owe. Especially not Rollie Newcomb. We may live in the sticks, but we’re not hicks. Either tell it straight or hit the door.”

“Fair enough. Bobby’s onetime squeeze, Krystal, hired me to find him.”

“No kidding? After all this time? Why?”

“I’m afraid that’s between Krystal and Bobby.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway. I haven’t heard from Bobby in years. I’ve no idea where he is, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. For the record, Bobby and I not only worked together back when, we grew up in the same orphanage in Windsor. We were like blood to each other. What kind of a jam is he in?”

“Why do you think he’s in a jam?”

“That guy was born in trouble. What is it this time?”

“He’s not jammed up, but that’s all I’m free to say.”

“Okay, let’s try another angle. Does Krystal really want to find Bobby? Or is she looking for the kid?”

I leaned forward involuntarily. “Do you know where the child is?” “Nope, but I know what happened to it. It’s the reason Bobby and I broke it off.”

“How do you mean?”

“Bobby was always like a crazy little brother to me. He was a helluva talented singer, but he had a nose for dope along with it. Bailing him out of jackpots was my full-time job when we worked the road together. The Badmen played every hole-in-the-wall joint between Cedar Rapids and Toronto and I saw Bobby pull some crappy stunts, but I always figured, he’s young, he’ll grow up. But with Krystal and the baby he was so far over the line I realized he was never gonna change. A guy who could do that...”

“Do what?”

“He sold the baby,” Marino said evenly. “His own child. Peddled it like a used car.”

“There’s a gray market for babies, especially healthy white kids,” Marino explained. We were sitting at his kitchen table over coffee and sandwiches Jeanie whipped up. I offered to help, but Marino warned me off with a look. She might be in a chair, but she was far from helpless. In fact, I noted a short-barreled shotgun at the end of the counter behind the kitchen door. Jeanie caught me eyeing it.

“Insurance,” she said. “We’re a long way from help out here and one thing you learn on the road is, Lord, there are some strange folks loose in this world. No offense.”

“None taken. I resemble that remark,” I said, and she smiled. I shifted to her husband. “What can you tell me about Bobby selling the kid?”

“The group broke up after Jeanie’s accident. We got married and I started working my way through Oakland U. driving a garbage truck on the night shift. I’m a purchasing exec with the highway department now,” he added ruefully. “Go figure. Anyway, one afternoon Bobby showed up out of nowhere. He was strung out on smack, and he needed my help.”

“To do what?”

“He said he wanted to do the right thing by his kid, give her a chance to be with a good family. Wanted me to go with him. You gotta understand, coming from the background we did, giving up his kid was a pretty heavy step. Still, Krystal dumped her on him, and he was in no shape to cope. He could barely take care of himself. Adoption seemed like the right thing.”

“What happened?”

“We drove into Motown to the Renaissance Center, but instead of an agency, we go to a lawyer’s office. Bobby told me the guy arranges adoptions, but two minutes into the conversation I realize they’re not talking about whether the kid will have a good life. They’re just dickering over the price. I couldn’t believe it. I blew up. Big mistake. Two bruisers came busting in, told me I could leave by the elevator or the window, my choice. We were on the twenty-third floor.”

“So you took the elevator.”

“Out of that building. And out of Bobby’s life.”

“Do you know for a fact that he sold the child?”

“I only saw him once after that, just long enough to tell him to get lost. He didn’t have the kid anymore.”

“Do you remember the lawyer’s name?”

“Zeman. Anthony Zeman.”

He was watching my face for a reaction. “Damn,” I said.

“Mr. Axton, are you expecting company?” Jeanie said, glancing out the kitchen window.

“No, why?”

“A white Cadillac’s coming up our road. We don’t get much company out here. I guess when it rains, it pours.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to your guests,” I said, rising. “Thanks for your help.”

Marino walked me out on the porch just as the Cadillac’s doors opened. And four neatly dressed linebacker types climbed out: Jerry Klein, his pal Jack, and two more just like them. A matched set of muscle.

“Is the child here, Axton?” Klein asked, trotting up the ramp.

“No. These people have nothing to do with it.”

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it. We’ll just take a quick look.”

“Whoa,” Marino said, “where do you think you’re going?”

“Inside,” Klein said. “We have reason to believe you may be involved in a kidnapping. Stand aside.”

“The hell I will! Who are you people—?”

Without warning, Klein drove a fist into Marino’s belly, spinning him face-first into the wall, dropping him to his knees. I yanked Klein around but before either of us could swing, a shotgun blast shattered the air, freezing everyone.

Jeanie Marino came humming around the side of the house in her chair, the short double-barreled shotgun cradled in her arms. The shot she’d fired had perforated the Cadillac in a dozen places. For a silent moment the only sound was the Caddy’s rear tire wheezing flat.

“That’s enough,” Jeanie said quietly. “You boys had best git in your car and go. While you can.”

“Lady, you’d better put that gun down—”

“Save your breath. Get moving. Now.”

Klein licked his lips. “You’ve only got one round left in that thing.”